


what you and i have makes me free

by madeofbees



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Coming Out, Episode: s04e11 Emily, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Lapdance, M/M, Minor Drug Use, Missing Scene, Smut, Tough boys being soft, let! them! be! happy!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:54:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21976936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeofbees/pseuds/madeofbees
Summary: A brief moment of happiness after Mickey comes out.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 7
Kudos: 79





	what you and i have makes me free

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SuOliveira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuOliveira/gifts).



> Okay so fair warning: I haven't seen most of Shameless, just an episode here and there, but I do know most of the Gallavich scenes from compilations and my wife sitting me down and educating me on our Disaster Boys. It is entirely possible this is out of character and full of inconsistencies and going against canon in ways I don't know or understand and I apologize in advance. I wanted to write my wife something cute and fluffy and it's a surprise, so I couldn't ask her to check it over for me for accuracy. I think it's good enough to share here, but if everything is wrong, that's why.
> 
> **TLDR; I don't know what I'm talking about and should't be posting in this fandom, yet here I am.**

Mickey was floating, lost somewhere between the look on Ian’s face when he’d declared to the entire bar that he was a homo and the feel of Terry’s fists on his face, and he only sort of remembered what happened when the police showed up, and nothing felt real until Ian came up next to him, after he’d taken a swig of whatever crap was in his flask, when he’d squeezed his shoulder, ran his fingers through his hair, and kissed his temple.

That felt real, the sort of real that grounded him and sent him flying at once, and everything was good. His face felt like he’d been attacked by several thousand hives of bees, his tooth was throbbing, his knuckles burning, and none of it mattered, he didn’t give a shit, barely even noticed.

“C’mon,” Ian said, taking a few steps back. “Let’s get you home, you’re a fucking mess.”

Mickey snorted, wiping his knuckles across his nose, coming away bloody. “You think I have a fucking home to go to after that? I don’t think so, moron.”

Ian actually smiled, and Mickey briefly wondered if he needed to be hit again, or maybe had already taken one too may, because what the fuck was so amusing about any of this?

“Mick,” he said softly, and Mickey glanced around, squaring his shoulders, because nobody was allowed to call him that, not in that voice, he wasn’t a fucking pussy, and when Ian talked like that— “Old man’s in jail, remember? Two seconds ago, cuffed and driven away to rot in hell. That house? That’s yours now, man.”

“I know,” Mickey snapped, but he hadn’t, not yet. He couldn’t wrap his head around it, that he didn’t have to be scared—not that he was, he’d never be fucking scared of that piece of shit—but he didn’t have to be anymore, and he could go home. With Ian. Together. “I meant—fuck you, that’s what. Let’s get the fuck out of here, huh?” He pulled himself off the squad car and started walking towards his house, not looking to see if Ian was following, maybe more out of habit than anything else.

“So, uh.” Ian pulled up next to him, too close, and Mickey wanted to knock him back before remembering, wow, he didn’t have to. He glanced at Ian before looking back at the sidewalk, not knowing what to do with himself, because this was all so new and confusing and was he allowed to hold his hand while they walked, and did he even fucking want to, because that was what fairies did, hold hands in public, and fuck that shit. Only he kind of wanted to. “Does coming out mean I can do this now?”

Mickey turned and glared at Ian, somehow blaming him for reading his mind, and he was going to yell, but was stopped by Ian wrapping an arm around his shoulder, pulling him against him as they walked, and he was warm and solid and _his_ , and Mickey didn’t mind at all.

Not that anyone was allowed to know that.

“Yeah, if you wanna get your teeth knocked in,” he muttered, elbowing Ian in the ribs—his good side, he’d make sure to note where Ian had been injured so he wouldn’t accidentally hurt him—and ducking out from under the embrace. “Just because—that happened, it doesn’t mean shit, I’m not about to skip around holding hands like I’m in-fucking-love or some shit.” And whoops, where’d that come from, _obviously_ he wasn’t in love with Ian, love was for sissies and queers and spoiled rich kids who didn’t have to worry about where their next meal was coming from or who was out to kill them.

“Okay,” Ian said companionably, taking his arm back, hands in his pockets. “But I am staying over, whether you like it or not. You could have a concussion, someone needs to keep an eye on you.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Uh huh, sure, and you could have broken ribs stabbing into your lungs, drown to death in your own blood, but you don’t see me making a fuss, do you? I can take care of myself.”

“You can,” Ian said, knocking his shoulder against Mickey’s. “But you don’t have to.”

Mickey didn’t know what to say to that, and the rest of the walk was quiet. A good sort of quiet, he realized, the sort where he felt warm and safe, and part of him railed against that because he was _never_ safe, he was cold to the fucking _bone_ , but whatever had possessed him to announce to the bar that he was gay was still around, and he let himself feel, if not exactly happy, at least not actively angry.

By some miracle the house was empty when they got home, and thank god, because Mickey was seriously not in the mood to announce to everyone and their dog that Terry was in jail, not because anyone would be upset but because they’d want to know why, and he’d already come out enough for one night. At least Svetlana couldn’t blackmail him anymore, but even that was an issue to be dealt with another time.

“Bed,” he stated, grabbing Ian’s wrist—bony, too skinny, whatever else was up with Ian he wasn’t eating enough, but again, a problem for Future Mickey—and dragging them upstairs, pulling them into his room, kicking the door closed, slamming Ian against it. Ian let him, a devil-may-care look lighting up his eyes, half-smirking, his hands coming to rest on Mickey’s hips, and instead of yell at him for touching, or looking happy, or what-the-fuck-ever, Mickey kissed him. Hard, bruising, too many teeth, and Ian gave as good as he got, hands sliding back to grab Mickey’s ass, anchoring them together, and Mickey let out a muffled groan, grinding his hips against Ian’s.

“Remember,” Ian said breathlessly, jerking away from Mickey, who was going to punch him if his mouth didn’t get busy again real soon, “when you paid me for a lap dance?”

Mickey glared at him, not in the mood to discuss Ian’s career choices, or be reminded that the stupid fucking club existed at all. “I’ll pay you to keep your mouth shut,” he snapped, grabbing Ian’s face and drawing him into another kiss, biting his lower lip hard enough to earn a gasp. Ian let him take charge for another few moments, either because he was feeling hospitable or because Mickey had rendered him speechless, he wasn’t sure which, before pulling back again.

“How’d you like me to finish that?”

Mickey stared at him, torn between pissed off that he was still talking and not fucking him and a little curious. “What about your ribs?” he asked after a beat, ghosting his hand along Ian’s side in one of those gentle caresses he’d die before admitting to.

Ian reached into his pocket, pulled out a baggie of pills, and Mickey’s eyes hardened, back to wanting to punch Ian, and made a grab for it. Ian, asshole that he was, held the bag up and out of his reach.

“Relax, it’s just a couple oxy I lifted off Frank,” Ian said smoothly, and that wasn’t great, but Mickey’d take it. Besides, all the kissing was making his busted lip hurt, and he wasn’t about to say no to a little pain relief.

“Fine, give it here,” he said, snatching the baggie from Ian, shaking out four, tossing two back for himself and holding the other two out for Ian, smacking his hand away when he reached for them, smirking. “Open up, pretty boy.” Ian rolled his eyes, trying and failing to hide a smile, and opened his mouth. Mickey gently set the two pills on his tongue, watching a little too closely at how his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed, and dropped the rest on the floor. “I’ve got a few joints to take the edge off ’til that kicks in.”

“Hurry up, I can’t fuck you until something works, and I need that ass,” Ian said, grinning, making to grab Mickey’s ass again. Mickey dodged him, grabbing the weed off his dresser and falling into bed. Ian was beside him immediately, cuddling up close against him, and Mickey kind of wanted to push him away and kind of really, really didn’t. And, since Terry was gone—he was still getting used to the idea, not sure if he fully trusted it until he heard charges, convictions, the jingle of the key to his cell being thrown out—he decided it was okay. He didn’t exactly lean back against him, but he did shove himself against Ian while digging through his pockets for a lighter, and didn’t bother to move back once he’d found it.

“Here’s to freedom,” Ian said as Mickey lit the joint, and he blushed, because apparently Ian hadn’t forgot he’d said that, and yeah, that was good. The part of him that automatically needed to deny he’d ever said anything nice ever in his entire life, let alone to Ian, let alone about _them_ , was easy to push aside, and so yeah, Ian was right, here’s to motherfucking freedom.

He still told Ian to shut up before passing the blunt, he couldn’t have him getting any ideas that he was soft or gentle or just so fucking easy for him. He kicked off his shoes and tossed his jacket on the floor, unbuttoned his shirt, and finally, for the first time that night, for the first time since he could fucking remember, relaxed back against Ian.

Mickey let himself drift as they passed the joint back and forth, let Ian kiss him with a mouthful of smoke, let Ian’s hands wander over his, up his arms, push his shirt off, and then Ian was in his lap, straddling him, ass grinding down just so, and fuck. His hands on Ian’s hips, not pushing or guiding, just touching, holding. Ian leaning down to kiss his neck, nip at his collar bones. His tank and Ian’s over shirt disappearing in a flurry of fabric. Mickey’s hands on his bare skin, so hot against his cold hands, sliding up and up until his tee was off, too. Delicious friction that wasn’t enough, too many layers still between them, grinding up against Ian’s perfectly moving body.

A brief flash of jealous rage at remembering just how Ian had gotten so good at this, pushed away in favor of one night, _this_ night, of freedom.

Ian’s hands on his fly, somehow managing to get his pants and boxers off without stopping the dance. Mickey tugging at Ian’s belt loops, not willing to stop kissing him long enough to tell him to take them off. Ian up on his knees, stripping for him, and _fuck_ he was gorgeous. Hands, everywhere, unable to keep them to himself, because Ian was _his_ and nobody else’s. Ian settling back down, moving so Mickey’s dick was between his cheeks. Moaning, gasping for air, scrambling to pull him down, rub off against him. Ian not stopping and it was building, building.

Flying over the edge, moaning into Ian’s neck, sliding smoothly through his own come.

Flipping them over, pushing Ian down, lips around his cock. Moaning again, making Ian jerk up, deeper into his mouth, down his throat. Home, as Ian came, fingers in his hair, swallowing around him.

Home, as Mickey rolled off him, yanked the blankets up, curled into Ian’s side, held close against him.

Free.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a Mickey RP blog over on tumblr if anyone wants to play! Come find me at [mickeyisanass](%E2%80%9Cmickeyisanass.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D) :D


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